I love the way the snow sounds when it's silent outside, and all I can hear is the swishing whisper of that eternal whiteness. Falling, falling, falling. I look up in the sky, the sky that would normally be the color of ink, but there are those little crystals of white growing closer and closer until they melt on my lips and they taste like memory and sorrow and hope. And I walk, across the field where human lights and human voices and human hatred cannot touch, listening only to the soft tamping sound my bare feet make on the wet snow. I pad across the field to nowhere in particular, but everywhere in particular. I have no destination; everywhere is my destination. I feel eternal.

I look around me, at the white-glazed trees, at the cascade of tiny individual shapes, and see white. There is no other color, nothing as pure as white. I look down at myself, at my bare body, at my long white legs, at my slender white hips, at my small white breasts, and see white. The color leaches out of my skin as I walk, and I become as pure as the snow.

I am in the blizzard now, walking with no clothes, no flashlight, no gloves or boots. My black hair is turning white from the icy whispers alighting in it. I am not cold. I am not tired. I have never gotten cold or tired and I never will. I am not dying, not freezing to death. I simply exist in the snow.

I will walk in this field forever, for I have no destination; everywhere is my destination. I will walk in this field and listen to the swishing whisper of the eternal whiteness. I will taste the memory and sorrow and hope on my tongue. I will walk in this field to nowhere in particular. Everywhere in particular.

I am eternal.